


The Unfolding

by researchsociety



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, F/M, First Time, Gritty, Mild Gore, One Shot, Post - A Dance With Dragons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 19:45:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3703355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/researchsociety/pseuds/researchsociety
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brienne and Jaime fight Stoneheart and head to the Wall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unfolding

_This is how it begins._

A drip on her shoulder from a lock of hair, not hers. Breath, warm and moist in her ear, murmuring ( _pleading_ ): turn and strike, wench.

The mud is half-freezing as the woman's throat rattles death behind them. Death itself, the Stranger come again. Brienne is terrified-- the words in her neck, the scratch of a beard against her collarbone, the drip of melted snow on her shoulder-- it roots her to the spot. How can she turn and strike when she is so safe here?

This is home, this is fleeting, a final moment of life--

Some say a sword rings when it strikes another, a merry bell singing out the music of war. Valyrian steel doesn't ring-- it whines, endless through the night as it cuts across the tattered neck of Catelyn Stark, as it quickly parries off another man's sword, his steel, his thick gut. The whine needles through Brienne's muscles when Jaime finishes off another contender with a hidden dirk and the Brotherhood flees; the mud gives under her and Lady Stark's body breaks her fall.

The Valyrian steel whines, still, as she looks at her hands. One, curled into the blood and mud and snow. One, bearing down on Lady Stark's tattered shoulder. Brienne's fall dislocates the Lady's shoulder, all dead flesh-- little more than meat.

_It unfolds before them, mapping and unmapping, quiet, searching._

Jaime pushes her roughly into a tree strung up with Freys. She slides down, the bark scratching at the thin cloth of her tunic.

Jaime and Pod drag Hyle's bloated body toward the fire, burning it in lieu of the labor burying would bring. His purpled, distended face is turned away from her as he is heaped lonely upon the flames, thank the Gods. The Valyrian steel's whine is still there in her ears, lingering behind Jaime's grunts and Pod's soft sobbing. He's only a little boy.

_I shall count to three. Turn and strike, wench._

_Warm in her ear._

_I will not hurt you. Her ear is already warm, the flush creeping up her chest, neck, face, tip of her nose._

Pod cries in her arms after. Jaime wants to curse at him. He is a lucky boy, he thinks brutally, to see such gallantry and excitement. Assisting heroic knights in defeating a gang of outlaws is something Jaime wanted when he was the boy's age. It's what drove him to pick up a sword; it's why he was knighted.

Brienne buries her face in Pod's hair as Jaime strings Stoneheart's severed head up by her long braid. The woman's fair face is awful in death, pinched and tattered. This is what little boys ask for.

_One, two three._

_Look at me, wench. Please look at me._

* * *

 

They abandon their armor after Thoros.

She gives him Oathkeeper, or at least attempts to. His hand is numb from cold and gripping Honor's reign. Her ankle in a splint, she hops off and falls to her knees on the empty road. Yelps. She doesn't try to rise, and Jaime doesn't try to help her.

"I have seen you rendered low, too, Ser Jaime." She is defending herself. Jaime's expression, he swore, he swore, was neutral. His hand lands on her shoulder.

She pushes the glorious sword at him, babbling about oaths and honor. I'm sorry, she says, I'm sorry. All he hears is that he was right all along. All he hears is someone getting what they asked for.

He pushes it back into her chest with numb fingers and a bandaged stump. She leans forward in defeat and grief ( _it must be grief_ ). Not knowing what else to do, he pulls her into a slow embrace, pressing a cheek to the top of her head. A thumb rubs at the nape of her neck, a rhythmic _I know, I know_.

_A dead woman stands before them, furious. She is made hungry by death, and her only desire is for more. Jaime's heart falls._

_The Valyrian steel whines and fades as she awakens in the warm bedroll. An arm tightens across her shoulders._

_Kill him, Brienne. Kill him, Kingslayer's whore, and your lad shall live._

* * *

 

"I will come with you," he says as they rest and organize their rations. Brienne has procured a barn for them to spend the night, pretending to be a man called to serve in the Night's Watch. The farmer didn't seem suspicious, but appreciated the gold. Broth spills down Jaime's beard and he looks at her as if it is the most natural thing in the world. Pod sleeps in the hay behind them.

"You have your duties," she protests. "Your men--"

"Thoros let me use a Raven," he said, placing his bowl on the floor of the stable. His stew is finished; he must have been hungry. The small fire is warm.

Thoros. He met with them before they left the Brotherhood's camp, his hands up as he knelt in surrender. Go North, he urged. I will find the rest of Lady Stoneheart's men, they may yet listen to me. We will go to the Wall. This Winter must end, and the darkness is coming.

Brienne sheathed her sword. The red priest nodded and fled.

"My men will return-- half to King's Landing, the others to Casterly Rock. It is done, no arguments. I will come with you."

_Of course I will come with you._

She cannot bear his gaze and looks away.

_The beginning happened so long ago, unfolding across days and weeks; the beginning is the unfolding of a severed hand._

They steal away in abandoned taverns and barns, though the danger is less and less now that Winter gathers around them. Snow is a deterrant to burglars and thieves and rapers, and a heavy snowfall stops travel entirely. Brienne hates herself for failing Lady Stark and hates Jaime for forgiving her, for accompanying her as if they are companions or even friends. As soon as she begins to feel a sense of calm, the whine of that Valyrian sword returns and pierces straight through her soul. She doesn't sleep.

Podrick holds her hand while they ride Honor through the snow; she and Jaime take turns in guiding the poor beast under the barren, yawning wood. The group of three rarely speak, and then only to discuss where they will sleep, which rations they will eat. At night she tells Pod stories until he falls asleep, just like her father used to when she was a little girl with dreams of swinging a sword and earning valor. Jaime watches them.

* * *

 

_It began with..._

At night she feels him curl into her, his beard brushing against her neck.

It's uncomfortable, at first, because she can't sleep. The sword, the Lady, the Stark girl, Renly all keep her from dreams. Some nights, Jaime does. One night it's the Queen.

He holds her, or she holds him. Finally, on the fourth she sleeps and dreams of nooses and a hedge knight who asked for her hand.

As Winterfell rises in the distance, camps of men appear with their fires and smoke and violence. They are careful to avoid them: Bolton men and Northern men, snowy tents poking through the snow like knuckles. It has been two days since they had warm shelter, and last night they couldn't manage a fire. Pod's cracked lips begin bleeding.

There is a village a ways from Winterfell that Jaime deems safe.

"Its been nearly two months. Everyone thinks we're dead."

Brienne trusts him. He trusted her, after all. Her gut burns like rope on bare skin as he leads on.

Night snow blows through her cloak as they peer through windows. Soldiers and refugees pile into the small houses, taking food and fire and shelter and the tavern's guests spill into the adjacent stables. She knocks on doors for an hour and finally and finds an empty shack, its windows broken and roof rotting. Jaime stacks wood planks against those wide winter mouths in an attempt to keep the worst of the cold and wind out, and Brienne builds a fire. Podrick falls asleep soon after his head touches the ground, while Jaime and Brienne plan the rest of the journey to the Wall. These would likely be the last good accommodations until the Gift.

"He can't stay with us," she says between bites of carrot.

_Pod's fingers scramble at the noose around his neck. Brienne cries in relief when he and Hyle are cut down._

_One, two, three._

Later, as Brienne drifts to sleep, she feels Jaime curl into her, his nose brushing her jaw. She grasps his wrist-- stump is too ugly a word-- and pulls him tighter to her. Her heart quickens despite herself, and as sleep takes her she feels his groin pressing into her hip.

_Anger roils inside of him; then fear, then relief. He shoves her against the tree, Frey feet dangling above her straw-blond hair. She looks at him, but cannot see, and she weeps._

_Who would ask for this?_

* * *

 

Honor dies in the wolfswood, and Brienne leaves a stoic Podrick in an Inn full up with Baratheon of Dragonstone men.

"I will return here in Spring, if you are still here. If not, should you ever desire to meet again, find me on Tarth."

Podrick nods and he is not such a little boy, not anymore. Jaime gives him a dagger.

"What good is he? More mouths to feed," the inkeeper accuses, teeth black and missing. It has stopped snowing, and the glaring white of the world outside casts the little squire in the harsh light of morning. He shuffles his feet on the dirty flagstone.

"He can cook," Brienne offers. "And is a decent hand in combat. We offer a full horse's worth of meat along with him. He served as squire to a gallant knight for nigh-on a year."

A Baratheon man eyes Jaime from the corner, but the golden hand is long-gone and his hair is brown from going unwashed. The lone soldier turns back to his whore. Brienne remembers Stannis and clenches her fist far from the hilt of her sword.

_Hot breath, pleading._

"Should he not earn his keep..." warns the inkeeper idly, turning to tend the fire and accepting her offer. Brienne looks at Podrick again and feels another vow break inside. The Valyrian steel whines. Her throat closes.

 _It begins with one, continues with two, unfolds with three, three, three. A hand on the back of her head, a thumb on the nape of her neck, warm breathing on her_ _cheek, a gasp in her mouth, a hand on her thigh._

Jaime watches Brienne stretch in her sleep and remembers her in the bath so long ago. He doesn't care if she can hear when he takes himself in hand. She shifts in her bedroll; the ground beneath them is frozen.

* * *

 

_One.. two..._

Brienne is cut to the bone these past weeks, he can see that. She has been laid raw and bare by Lady Stoneheart, and he can see nothing but shame in her eyes when they speak. And she does speak to him, much more now. She is eager to reach the wall and to meet Thoros again. Should the worst happen, she hopes to die a hero.

She doesn't ask Jaime what he will do at the wall, and he doesn't offer his opinion.

"So eager to get way from me, wench?"

He regrets half the things he says to her; she hides her feelings poorly, much more poorly since those autumn days in the Riverlands when he could do naught but tease her. Back then she was strong and stubborn, knowing that although the whole of Westeros would think of her ugly and pathetic and unmarriagable, they could never best her sword.

Now... now she is just Brienne, and she has not touched her sword in ages. He remembers what it's like to be brought so low.

The road is empty. Happily, snow has not yet swallowed it and only small settlements are up ahead. No travelers. In the far distance, Jaime can swear he sees the thin line of the Wall on the horizon. She does not look at him, and his stomach tightens when she replies to his question with a yes.

They do not speak again until they set up their tent in the twilight, purchased from one of the many oblivious sellswords looking to profit from their dead companions.

"How can you bear it?" she whispers as they lay in the dark. "Why do you keep me as your travel companion?"

He thinks of Ned Stark, of his father, of Barristan Selmy's disgust. He thinks of the lords and smallfolk who whisper Kingslayer. He thinks of Cersei, the triumph in her eyes and how he would have given his soul to feel even a whipser of victory as he stood above Aerys.

_All little boys dream of being knights. Jaime wanted this._

"Time," he answers honestly. "Knowing yourself. Knowing your allies. Remembering... the reasons for why you did what you did."

She says nothing. He turns on his side to look at her, seeing only the glitter of her eyes in the dark.

"Brienne, you lied to me."

The glittering disappears as she squeezes her eyes shut.

He waits some time before speaking again.

"I know you," he says, and his voice is small. She turns her back to him.

* * *

 

 _The road unfolds before them, and she limps ahead while holding Podrick's hand, and she feels the heat of his glare behind her, and she remembers being called_ _the Kingslayer's Whore._

 _It all began when she leaned against the wall, or when she allowed his arm around her, or when he dreamed, or when she took a Lannister without honor to King's_ _Landing. It all began that day, or that night, or that evening, or precisely at high noon when no shadow lay on the ground. Was there music? Was there the ringing_ _of a sword?_

"Bastard!" she screams as Oathkeeper wails. The man, a Baratheon deserter, falls and dies. His blood paints the snow and is already a violent brown against the white. Jaime coughs behind her, doubled over from the deserter's blow.

She grips him and tries to help him stand, though his knees will not hold. Twenty paces. Forty paces. One-hundred and he can walk properly again, and they trudge through the snow, towards a farm. Brienne guides him, and her hand on his sore stomach will very slightly shift across the blooming bruise, not letting go until he pulls away. It's an apology. It must be.

They both see the Wall. Two days' travel, now.

When they arrive, the farmer's decomposing body is under a mat of snow and the living quarters are cold. The food in the farmer's home had been looted long before they arrived and they are too cold and exhausted to consider any dangers that might arrive upon them.

Eating the bits of dried meat left to them, they sit in front of the fireplace warming themselves for the first time in three days.

"I'm afraid I might lose my fingers," Jaime says, chewing gloomily.

"Let me see," Brienne whispers, gentler than a woman like her has any right to be, and he extends his hand without hesitation. She begins to rub his fingers with hers, five between ten.

Their eyes meet.

"Brienne..." Jaime starts, and she hushes him.

"We will meet with Thoros at the Wall tomorrow," she says, looking back at his hand. "What will you do, then?"

"Whatever you do," he says, and her fingers pause on his. Had it not been so dark, he swears he would see her blush. He clears his throat, not knowing why he is embarrassed. "I will pledge my sword to the Lord Commander, whatever good that is. And then.. we will fight whichever battle comes next. King's Landing has been pestered for help since the beginning of autumn. I will offer the Kingsguard to him."

"Who is the Lord Commander?" Brienne asks, curious. Jaime starts when she begins rubbing at his fingers again.

"Last I knew it was Jeor Mormont, but I heard he was... deposed."

He leans over and stops her fingers with his stump. His remaining fingers curl around Brienne's.

"I don't know who it is," he admits, looking at her.

Her eyes still downcast, she slides her fingers into his.

"I'm..." she whispers. "I don't know why I continue on like this. I'm lost."

He squeezes her hand.

She lets out a hollow laugh and looks at him. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I don't mean to be a sordid maid. This is not what I imagined the end to be."

The fire crackles as he holds her, as they sleep.

* * *

 

_The beginning is now, with her against the wall, and it unfolds like this..._

She watches as a white cloak is burned in the square of Castle Black and Jaime Lannister is reduced to nothing more than a hired sword. Lord Commander Jon Snow accepts the help of the Kingsguard, of course, but strips Jaime of his title in the name of Stannis Baratheon, a false king who is fighting the Boltons. _Good for him_ , Brienne thinks acidly. _I would cut his throat for Renly_.

Jaime is quiet that night as they say their goodbyes, Brienne sequestered away with the few other women at the Wall. She takes her own room in the tower, though she must tend to her own fire and wakes shivering when it dies.

_The beginning unfolds, like a white cloak unfolding in a fire, crackling in the cold deep of the North._

As the Valyrian steel whines in her ear, all she can see is Lady Catelyn cut down again and again. Their eyes are blue and penetrate like a star, horrid and piercing. They fall easy, but there are so many, so many. Men scream and throw fire, and in the dark it is all so confusing. She looks for blue eyes and swings, a sob caught in her chest for hours and hours. In the morning the wights recede, and Brienne nervously scans the grounds for a bearded man with one hand, a bearded man with green eyes among the bodies.

She finds nothing.

He finds her, though, leaning against the wall of her quarters, attempting to staunch the bleeding wound on her shoulder. Someone, she doesn't know who, built a fire in the hearth and left stale bread on the small table beside her bed. She hisses as the wine and snowmelt drip down her arm, a maiden and a warrior and a freak.

"Gods," she whines.

And then he is there.

"Brienne," he says, choking on the word. "They..."

She nods stiffly after a long pause, not knowing what to say. She cannot speak.

Yes. The wights. Oathkeeper-- and it can't have that name, not anymore-- whines loudly still in her ears, taunting and reminding her of dead things and promises broken. But Jaime brings her back.

He brings her back when he closes the door behind him. When he walks to her. When he tries to grab her waist with his right hand and fumbles with his mangled wrist, but his left hand is warm and wide on her hip. He brings her back when he presses their chests together.

The Valyrian steel quiets when he kisses her.

There is a moment of pause and of ache.

_Jaime. Jaime._

Then. Then she pushes into his kiss and her heart threatens to climb out of her chest, up her throat, into her mouth, and as she opens it Jaime pushes his own tongue in. Her arms wrap around his shoulder and waist as she tries to meet his mouth and tongue with her own, hot and yearning, forgetting that she's never done this before and that it would be right to be nervous and guilty and miserable.

He pulls his mouth from hers and looks into her eyes. He lets out a huff of warmth and smiles.

"You're trembling," he says, as if that is the only thing to say.

Her hand goes through his hair and down to his neck. Why, she wants to ask. _Why. Why._

"I..."

"I thought you might be dead," he croaks, kissing her again. And again. His lips are gentle, and his chin is firm and rough with facial hair as he presses long kisses onto her lips. There has never been anything simpler and better than this.

She looks at him again, breathless, and he's right-- she's trembling. Lowering her eyes, she asks him the same thing she has asked all this time.

"Why me? Jaime-- I dont--"

Brienne remembers the last time he looked at her like this, and the time before that. It looked like a goodbye, before, and now she cannot place it. Her fingers brush his jaw.

"Because I _know_ you," he whispers, kissing her mangled cheek. Breathing warmly into her ear as his hand slides up her torso, across her breasts, caressing the scar looping around her neck. "I know you. And you know me. And..."

He cannot continue, and his mouth meets her once again.

They fall onto the bed. Jaime's legs tangle in hers and they explore each others mouths, new and hot and slow in the light of the cold morning. Jaime whispers her name against her neck, murmurs warm and sweet in her ear. His hand is on her thigh, propelling heat into her most private place. His tongue presses against hers, and all it can whisper is _Brienne_.

* * *

 

_One, two, three. He tells her to turn and strike, wench._

One, two, three. He tells her to hold her breath for these three seconds, to accept the pain, that after the pain there will be pleasure. He promises her pleasure with trembling hands and worried green eyes. He looks at her like she is not a massive freak, like she is not ugly and stared at by the men of the wall, questioning whether or not it would be worth it to take her for themselves by force. He looks at her like she is not scarred and strange and ugly. No, he looks at her like she is a person to be handled gently. Lovingly.

And why, why?

_Because I know you._

"Look at me, Wench. Please look at me."

She does.

He pushes in. She gasps. His thumb brushes a nipple and he breathes warmth into her ear. _I will not hurt you._ Her ear is already warm, the flush creeping up her chest, neck, face, tip of her nose. He gasps into her mouth.

_This is how it began._

* * *

 

One week later, the dragons come. The Wall melts.

 _Perhaps they flee with the limbs left to them. Jaime with one hand, one eye, Brienne with a limp and memories of wildling children eating wight flesh, of a silver-_ _haired princess razing what is left of the Night's Watch with fire and blood._

 _Perhaps they find Pod, or do not find Pod, perhaps they flee to Tarth and hide and and raise yellow-haired knights years later. Perhaps they flee to Casterly Rock_ _and Jaime reigns until his little brother comes to take what is his, Brienne praying for his successful escape and never knowing his fate._

 _Or perhaps they go to the free cities and find little Arya Stark. They will serve as sellswords. They will be freefolk. Jaime a crofter, Brienne a washerwoman with a_ _child hanging off her chest, giving sword lessons to the young squires of Braavos as their child sleeps._

_Or perhaps they go to King's Landing. Jaime finds Cersei, mad and raving over Tommen's body. Soon, they are both mad and raving and then Brienne is alone._

_Perhaps this is the beginning. Perhaps this is the end._

They look up at the beast as it belches fire hundreds of feet above them, fury and death. They hold hands as it all unfolds.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for keeping up with my work, everyone! Just a short little story. Sorry for all the italics, it's just one of my things. All feedback is appreciated.


End file.
